The Mystery of a Small, Gray Cat

This morning, a small gray cat is slipping quietly through my thoughts. I think of her often, D. C., the cat who was with us the longest. She was actually my son’s cat, but she and I understood each other. She could look at me and communicate that she would like a bite of food, please, or maybe just some attention; she didn’t have to say a thing. She would stare at me through the glass storm door and somehow, I’d know if her food or water dish needed replenishing. For a long while after she was gone from us, that smudge on the glass door where her nose came, stayed. I hated to wash it off. And, the windowsill in the laundry room–well, I’m sure that if the new owners of Manos Meadows haven’t re-sanded that sill, D. C.’s claw marks still show where she used to sit and watch the birds.

She was two months old when she came into our lives, we who lived at Manos Meadows. She was never a demanding, bossy cat. She was aloof and dignified, but always there when I needed to talk to a non-judgmental listener. 

I hope she forgave me for saving the life of a chipmunk once, when I noticed she had one of the little creatures cornered. She did give me a mighty baleful look as I walked between them, giving the frightened chipmunk a chance to run away. But, she didn’t say anything, and merely stalked off, tail straight as a ramrod. 

She nearly lost her dignity the time a blue jay followed her into the carport, darting down to peck her on the derriere. She didn’t run, no, not she, the furry Princess of Manos Meadows. But, she hurried. I never mentioned this episode to her, knowing that it would embarrass her, and also knowing that the bluejay probably had a right to be upset with her.

She lived her life at Manos Meadows and she is there still. I buried her under the old Buryin’ Tree, a stately oak. On dark, cloudy days, when loneliness threatens, I like to remember that little cat named D. C., and the way she brightened our lives for nearly two decades.